The building’s exterior’s the same. Plain, easily dismissed as any other family restaurant. Sitting in the booth furthest from the entrance, the counter and tables, the arrangement of pepper and creamer, the way the server pours coffee into the white porcelain cup also forgettable. I don’t remember details.

Used to come here with my mother as a little boy. Re-imagining how things might have been if she hadn’t died just as my 1st little boy was about ready to sneak away with abuela and eat breakfast. Just as I did. No one knowing of the intimate adventure. A little secret between us that made our relationship exciting, like when waiting in line in Hollywood to watch a movie Opening Night or when the raindrops bounced off the roof of the car like today. I listened from inside fogged windshield waiting for the rhythmic rain to stop so we wouldn’t get wet while I opened the umbrella.

It might have happened with my son. Could have happened for him like for me. It didn’t, though. Two more little boys after and decades later, details forgotten don’t matter, nor does nostalgia or possibly getting wet. Re-imagined secret breakfasts do.